


Become a Thief in the Night (Become a Dog on the Run)

by RecklessDaydreamer



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Backstory, M/M, Trust Issues, too many cat references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-20 03:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8235238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecklessDaydreamer/pseuds/RecklessDaydreamer
Summary: Some people go to space to make a name for themselves. Peter Nureyev makes a thousand.(or, the backstory of one Peter Nureyev, including first time pickpocketing, first time burgling, and first time instigating a violent revolution)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Valjean's Soliloquy" (Les Miserables), which is really the most Nureyev song I've ever heard.  
> "If there's another way to go, I missed it twenty long years ago. My life was a war that could never be won. They gave me a number and they murdered Valjean..."  
> Violence warning is for next chapter.

Rain drums on the tin roof as Peter Nureyev—ten years old and hunger-thin—shuffles a deck of cards. Watch him closely. See the look of concentration in those eyes as he snaps the deck together and apart, worn cards flying between his hands.

“Stop showing off,” Nicholas grumbles, “and deal.”

Peter (or so we’ll call him, for now, anyway, because that’s how we know him best) flips the deck between his hands and flicks cards back and forth between him and his older brother. He’d never admit it, but these are his favorite times, when he and Nicholas are alone at home. They are (respectively) the second and eldest of four children. Peter is always stuck at home taking care of the younger two while Nicholas works, but he knows he’s Nicholas’s favorite. In return, he admires Nicholas unconditionally. Asked who he wants to be when he grows up, Peter would name his big brother. “What’re we playing?”

“Poker.”

“Rangian Street Poker?” Peter asks, eyes lighting with something gleeful and dangerous.

“You’re too young for that,” Nicholas says, although he only has four years on Peter. “Seven-card drop.”

Peter sighs and deals a last set of cards. “Fine. Your draw.”

Watch them play for a moment. Observe the scatter of cards across the table, the sly smirk (they both have it) that accompanies a particularly good hand. In time, both will learn to hold a poker face, but right now they’re just boys, without anything more serious than a raid siren to hold their thoughts. Take a good look at this scene, because it’s the last time you’ll see anything like it (this boy so relaxed and carefree) for a long, long time…

Did you see it? That was your last chance. Because now there’s a _rap, rap, rap_ on the door, three quick businesslike knocks.

Nicholas gets up to answer, dropping his hand facedown on the table. “Don’t peek,” he teases his brother before opening the door.

He yelps in surprise, jumping a half step back from the two black-clad soldiers who push through. “You,” one says brusquely. “Are you the oldest? How old are you?”

“I’m fourteen,” Nicholas says, gathering himself. “May I help you, sir?” (You learn the hard way that you have to be polite to soldiers.)

“Come with us.”

Peter knows how this ends. He’s seen enough sons and daughters taken by the masked soldiers. “Don’t! Nicholas, they’re gonna kill you—”

The second soldier steps forward and slaps him smartly. Peter reels backward.

“Your brother is going to join the Imperial Governor’s army,” the soldier who hit him snaps.

“The _army?_ ” Nicholas says. “I—you can’t, I’m the only provider—”

“Parents?”   

“Just Mom,” he says shakily.

“Then she should get a job. Come on, scrub.”

_"Nicholas!”_ Peter yells, finding his voice again.

Nicholas ducks away from the butt of the soldier’s shotgun, drops to one knee in front of his little brother, talks as fast as he possibly can. “Take care of them, Peter. I’ll come back in five years, once I’ve served my term. I promise. But you’re going to have to be strong and help Mom, all right? Tell her I’m sorry. And tell Elle I corrected her math homework and it’s under her bed—” and he’s going to go on, but one of the soldiers grabs him by his collar and drags him out.

The door slams shut on Peter’s big brother, and Peter can do nothing but watch. Slowly, for lack of anything else to do, he gathers the cards together.

Some impulse drives him to flip over Nicholas’s cards, still carelessly splayed across his side of the table. It’s a winning hand. The best in the game.

Peter leaves the cards there. Just leaves them, letting that perfect hand lie abandoned on the table. He wants to pretend, for a little while longer, that Nicholas could ever come back to play it.

 

Things get hard after that. Without Nicholas’s pay, the little mechanic work Peter’s mother can find can’t support them for long. And every time they don’t have meat or bread or milk, every time he and his sisters take turns doing their homework with the same stub of a pencil, every time there’s no money for thread or soap or oil, Nicholas’s words ring in Peter’s ears. _“Take care of them, Peter.”_

And one night, when it’s getting cold and six-year-old Alice’s fingers are blue because they only have two pairs of mittens, Peter gets desperate. He’s out begging as usual, his voice high and thin and almost lost in the cold wind. The occasional car passes high overhead, some rich person not wanting to risk the Outskirts at night. All the passersby are huddled into their coats as they hurry home, ignoring the street kid begging for creds.

That’s when Peter sees him. A woman with a briefcase swinging at her side, who doesn’t even glance down at the beggar. She’s walking straight toward Peter, starts to pass by, and Peter spots the slim wallet sticking out of the briefcase. It’s just… there. Not protected. An easy target.

Watch closely; it happens in a blink. Peter doesn’t even stop to think about it, just darts one hand out and grabs the wallet. He lifts it straight up so it doesn’t jostle the briefcase and, once it’s liberated, quickly drops it down his shirt.

He holds his breath, hands shaking, until the woman turns the corner and goes out of sight. And then he jumps up and _runs_ , hope pushing him all the way home. When he opens the wallet—standing out of sight of the house, just in case his mother or one of his siblings happens to look out—there’s twelve whole credits inside. That’s enough to buy food for three days at least. Four if they stretch it.

That was the first time.

After that Peter ghosts down the streets every night, slipping delicate fingers into pockets and purses. If anyone sees him, they don’t say: he’s just another alley cat kid stealing to stay alive. His fingers are light, skin over bone, and his footsteps are blown away by the wind. He has the hands of a thief and the eyes of a thief and the hunger of a thief.

Keep one eye on this boy and another on your wallet. He is not in your story and you are not in his, but if anyone could burgle you anyway, he’d be the one. Notice, if you would, the smile that darts across his face—the first real smile since Nicholas was taken—when he sees his family eat well for the first time in days. At last he’s able to make his brother proud, and sure, his mom always told him stealing was wrong, but do you really think he’d give this up?

 

Peter never does get a job. His mom is the honest one now, taking mechanic work when she can get it, but that’s never enough no matter how late into the night she sits up fixing and building. (Peter could watch her for hours, watch her delicate long hands—just like his—dancing through the air.) So he steals.

At first it’s just small-time pickpocketing. A few credits here and there. It’s enough to keep them off the streets. For a while that’s all Peter wants.

He and the rest of his family could all be good machinists, but Peter turned his delicate fingers to theft and Alice would rather use her sharp mind for school. Alice, the youngest, turns out to be whip-smart—first in her class. Peter saves and steals to buy her a new pencil or a half-used notebook whenever he can. Elle, who becomes Peter’s second in command by dint of being the next oldest, never does figure out math, but she knows machines almost better than Mom.

They haven’t had any word from Nicholas, but no one expects it. If he’s lucky he’ll be dead already. If not… Peter doesn’t want to think about his brother shot down in the trenches or stabbed in an alleyway, the way so many young soldiers go.

 

Peter’s first big score comes six months after he starts stealing. He’s out late, hoping to pick up enough to buy Elle something for her birthday, and he’s walked farther than usual—probably even hit the Merchant District by now.

He strolls as casually as possible down Moonstone Street, eyeing every person who walks by. Peter has been working the streets for long enough that he can spot a mark easily, and soon he does: some businessman following a ragged girl. She darts down an alley, and the businessman follows.

So does Peter.

Within ten steps, the girl has disappeared and the alley has turned, hiding the man from the street. He continues nervously, glancing around him but determined. Maybe she’s promised him a big score or something. Or he’s a philanthropist. Peter laughs to himself at the thought; philanthropists don’t last long in the Outskirts.

The girl’s vanished entirely. Not even her voice echoes in the alley.

Peter makes his move.

He takes three silent steps forward and pinches the man's wallet right out of his pocket. Peter tucks it into his jacket and slides back into the shadows.

The businessman doesn’t appear to notice, but he’s looking more and more anxious. “Little girl?” he calls. “Where are you?”

Peter isn’t sure how he notices it, but he does: some shifting behind him, some strange feel in the air. He glances back and there she is.

She’s a tad shorter than him, but now that he sees her close up, he can tell she’s a good few years older. Her cheeks are dirty and her clothes ragged, but she carries herself like a queen. She moves with a quick, light shuffle that Peter recognizes as a thief’s step.

Keep a close eye on her, too. At this point you’d need three eyes to keep track of this story—one for Peter, one for your wallet, and one for this girl—but that’s the Outer Rim for you. Look away for an instant and someone will shiv you in the back. So just watch closely and hope no one does.

Peter would be impressed with this girl’s utter silence, but she’s glaring at him with eyes that brim over with enough rage to stun a Brahman elephant. She gives a few hand signals in some code Peter doesn’t know.

He shrugs and winks. Draws his knife and darts forward again, this time jumping as high as he dares and slicing the ridiculous feather out of the businessman’s hat. He lands with a thump, and the man turns. Peter freezes where he stands, the feather right there in his hand. That man is about to cry “thief” and a thousand soldiers will come arrest Peter and then his family’s going to starve and, and, and…

The girl charges forward and punches the businessman across the jaw, then knees him hard in the groin. He spins down to the dirt and lies there groaning. She whirls on Peter.

“So what’s a dirty little alley cat pickpocket doing on Mad Dog ground?”

Oh. Oh, this is bad.

Peter’s heard of the Mad Dogs, but only heard of them. They’re one of the most infamous thief gangs around—unofficial rulers of the Merchant District—and apparently he’s stepped into their territory.

“Sorry. I didn’t know. Um, I’ll be going now.” He takes a slow step backward.

“Oh no you don’t. You’re coming with me, alley cat.”

She doesn’t even have to drag him. Peter follows her meekly, because something tells him that’s his best chance at survival. They wind their way down a warren of alleys, past drinking dens and midden heaps, until the girl fairly shoves him through a nondescript door and into—well, Peter can hardly take it in all at once.

It’s a fairly small room, well-lit. The first floor is entirely open except for a table running from wall to wall, along which two Mad Dogs are lounging. Glancing up, Peter notes the balcony wrapping around the second floor and the doors that line it. To top it all off, a giant steel-and-crystal chandelier hangs in the exact middle of the ceiling.

Both heads turn when the girl shoves Peter inside. “Ara,” says a stocky young man, “what are you doing with this here alley cat? He stiff you on a bet?”

“Stuff it, Jove. I caught him picking a pocket on our ground.”

There’s a slow rustling at that as both turn fully to face Peter and—Ara must be her name.

“It was an accident,” Peter says. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Oh shut _up_ ,” Ara snaps at him. “We’ll let Sabine decide, yeah?” This is addressed to the pair at the table. They nod, and Peter isn’t sure whether to be relieved that they haven’t killed him yet or nervous for the same reason.

“All right, all right, what’s going on?” A sultry voice rings out from the second floor balcony, and then a young woman strolls down the rickety staircase, long dark coat brushing the ground behind her. This, Peter guesses, is Sabine. “Ara, what trouble have you dragged in tonight?”

“Caught this alley cat working our territory,” Ara says, shoving Peter forward. “Thought I’d let you decide what to do with him.”

“Well, seeing as I’m the _leader of this gang_ , I think that’s a perfectly reasonable idea.” Sabine descends the last few steps and moves to stand directly in front of Peter. She’s fairly looming over him. “So, little alley cat, what’s your game?”

Peter puts on the polite voice he uses to talk to adults. “I really didn’t mean to intrude. I'm stealing to help my family. I have to do whatever I can.”

“And what did you do tonight?”

“I stole someone’s wallet. Stole the feather off his hat, too.”

“I set the whole thing up,” Ara interrupts. “I was ready to trip him into a midden heap and nick everything I could, and then this alley cat comes along and messes it all up!”

“But,” Sabine says, “he got the wallet. And the feather. Didn’t he?”

Peter slowly holds out the wallet. It’s stuffed with coins and jingles in his hand. He offers  the feather, too. It’s billowy and white. Fancy.

“Ah. Now that is a nice haul,” Sabine says slowly. “But it’s _our_ haul.”

Peter says, “I lifted it, though.”

Sabine raises an eyebrow. “That you did, alley cat. That you did.” She reaches out and plucks the feather from his hand. “You sliced this right off his hat? You’re good with a knife, then, but if you didn’t stab Ara here you probably can’t use it for more than slitting purses. Well, we can fix that. And you got the jump on Ara, too.”

“You _can’t_ be thinking—” Ara starts, but Sabine glares at her.

“Can you run? Climb? Pluck a wallet?”

“Of course,” Peter says, before realizing how cocky that sounds.

“How long have you been picking pockets?”

“Almost a year.”

“Never got caught?”

“No.”

“Never been taught?”

“No.”

Sabine looks him up and down, then turns. “What say you, Mad Dogs?”

Ara spits on the floor but says nothing. The two at the table nod.

Sabine turns back to Peter. “So here’s the thing, alley cat. We’re short one man and that’s not good in our line of work, because without a lookout we’re screwed. We need our number five and it seems like you might be it.”

“I—what?”

“An alley cat among Dogs,” Sabine muses. “Ironic. Well?”

_If I refuse_ , Peter thinks, _they’ll kill me, probably_. _And I bet they make a lot more than I ever do._  “Sure. I mean… thank you.”

“Fine. You show up here every night to help. You don’t come, you don’t get a cut. You rat, we kill you. Do what we tell you because you’re the scrub. Got it?”

Keep an eye on this gang, too. Don’t miss the dozen weapons hidden on Morgan’s person. Don’t forget to watch Jove’s light fingers, and most especially don’t ignore Sabine’s knife-sharp smile.

Sabine takes the wallet Peter stole but lets him keep the feather. He runs all the way home, feet slapping stone and concrete. He’s gone farther than he expected. And only once he’s inside, looking at the feather in the shivering light of a candle stub, does he remember that he never found a present for Elle.

Some big brother he is if he can’t even steal a present for his little sister.

He leaves the feather instead—slips into the room he shares with her and Alice and sets it on her pillow.

When Elle wakes up in the morning, she never mentions the feather to Peter. But he sees her tuck it smartly into the brim of her hat, sees how she stands up straighter when she looks in the mirror. That’s most of the reason he decides to stay with the Mad Dogs.

The rest of the reason comes in a letter. It’s laid open on the kitchen table when Peter gets home one night. It has the Imperial Governor's crest on the top, the name of the army general printed at the bottom, and Peter doesn’t have to read it to know what it says. Nicholas survived little more than a year in the army.

The letter is left there on the table. See, it hasn’t even been folded up properly. It lies out like dirty laundry, like a chopped-off hand. Something nobody really wants to look at, but everyone knows it’s there.

Maybe Peter’s mother notices that her son has been staying out later, bringing in more and more money and never telling her where it comes from. But if so she doesn’t say anything: steady work is hard to find in the Outskirts.

 

 

After that, Peter runs with the Mad Dogs most nights, learning as he goes. Jove shows him how to charm a lock and lie blatantly and unclasp a bracelet with one handshake. Morgan teaches him to fight with hands and blades. Sabine teaches him the territory and how to read a mark. And so, ever so slowly, our pickpocket becomes a thief.

They call him “alley cat”, both because it’s Outskirts slang for a street urchin and because Sabine thinks it’s funny: scruffy little cat amid a pack of dogs.  

The first score he goes on with the whole gang goes like clockwork. Ara bribes a young couple—rich sightseers trying to be “risky”—down an alley with the promise of palm readings. (Apparently this is her usual game.) Peter plays lookout from atop a building, crouched behind a chimney. He peers down at the filthy cobblestone alley, watching Ara dance ahead of the couple. As soon as they’re out of sight from the street, he signals to Sabine and the other three jump them.

It’s over in minutes. They leave the couple tied up on the ground and split the loot, running off in every direction with two wallets, two watches, a pair of earrings, a bracelet, a tie pin, and a really nice hat. When everything is spread out on the long table in the Mad Dogs’ den, it looks like a dragon’s hoard. The gold and jewels glitter in the light of the chandelier.

Sabine perches on the table and parcels out everything they’ve stolen, splitting the money first and then moving on to the jewelry and the hat. Peter goes last, of course; she flips him the bracelet. “Cheap amber in plated brass. A little bit of pretty but it’s quite worthless. Might be able to pass it off at some back alley pawn shop if you do it right.”

Peter nods and slips it into an inner pocket of his jacket. If he really can’t get more than a few credits for it, it’s not worth selling.

It’s late, and they’ve finished the score, so he won’t be needed for the rest of the night. He slips out the door and starts running home. There’s a good few miles to cover between here and there.

Running calms him— always does. It makes him feel like his veins are full of wind, not blood. Like he could fly. He’s never as happy as when he’s moving, be it sneaking or fighting or running. Peter never could sit still for long; his hands itch for motion. Moonshadows throw long contours across the street. Other thief gangs lurk in the alleys, but he’s too young, too poor, and moving too fast to make a good mark.

Watch our thief now, for this stolen moment. Even alley cats have their alleys. Note how his movements relax, how his strides grow loose and long, like running is his native state of being.

When he gets home, lamplight glows within. Mom must still be up. He’s about to reach for the doorknob and go in when he hears a voice.

“This your place, alley cat?”

It’s Ara. She’s perched on the tin roof, smirking down at him.

“Why are you here?” Peter asks tiredly. “I don’t follow you home, you don’t follow me. Seems fair.”

“I don’t have a home to follow to,” she says, leaping down from the roof and landing lightly. “So. You a family man?”

Peter sighs. “Two little sisters, Mom, and me. Happy?”

“Ooh. So why’re you stealing?”

“We need the money! Why would you even ask?”

“Oh, no reason. Except I can’t believe you’re so easy, alley cat. Nobody’s that easy. I’m a betting woman, and even I don’t like the odds of that.”

“Listen,” Peter snaps, “I’m the only one who can put food on their table most nights. I have to do this, don’t you understand?”

Ara stares at him. “All right, alley cat, I get it. You’re missing someone. Older brother or sister, probably.” Her voice twists. “Somebody got conscripted, I’ll bet, and left you all by your lonesome, and you’re just waiting and waiting for them to come back—“

Peter punches her. One hard hit to the cheekbone. The punch sends Ara two steps backwards. She regains her balance easily. “Okay, alley cat, okay. I touched a nerve, I can see that. I’m sorry.”

Peter turns, and he has his hand on the doorknob when she speaks again. “I wanted to be sure you weren’t gonna do like Charlie did. He was our number five.”

“And what _did_ Charlie do?”

“Sold us out,” she says simply. “Ratted to a pack of soldiers. They killed him when we escaped. That’s why we’re one short. So when you showed up, it seemed too easy. But you, alley cat… I don’t think you’ll rat. You’ve got people. You’ve got more than yourself to worry about.” She walks toward him; Peter hears her steps but refuses to turn around. “So I’m sorry.”

He glances over his shoulder. Ara has one hand outstretched to shake.

Peter turns. Shakes her hand. And then he shuts the door in her face.

The next morning, Alice wakes up to find the bracelet on her wrist. She says nothing, but Peter still sees her smile.

He starts doing it more and more often. A pair of earrings for Elle, a cap for Alice. Just little things he can leave out for the people he cares about most in the world, trinkets that are only valuable to them. All the money goes to his mother, and he keeps a few prize pieces for himself, but everything else becomes a gift. He nicks things for his few friends, too: Brannon wakes up one morning to find a new button—enameled silver—where one was missing from his coat, and Cara discovers a new set of dice laid on her windowsill. Peter never tells anyone that these gifts are from him. He’d rather be anonymous, just the alley cat who saunters in the shadows.

Look closely: it’s in the proud tilt of his smile when he watches glossy new dice spin out from Cara’s hand, in the way he ducks his head when Alice hugs him silently and walks away, bracelet clasped around her wrist. This is a small pleasure for him, a bright spot in his day. Something good he can do to make up for the creeping feeling that running with the Mad Dogs is not always _right_ , but they still need the money and there’s still no work and thieving pays better than a job anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

Looking back, he should’ve guessed it would all go wrong one day.

 

Peter keeps checking and rechecking his watch. He’ll have to leave at eight if he wants to make it to the Mad Dogs’ hideout in time for tonight’s score, but he doesn’t really want to leave until he absolutely has to. Alice is cheerfully explaining everything she learned in her classes despite the fact that nobody else at the table understands a word of it. “And today in math class we learned how to solve algebraic matrices!”

“That’s great, Allie,” Elle grouses. “Have fun with your _ridiculously advanced math classes, how do you even do that_.”

“Thanks, I will!” Alice chirps, completely ignoring Elle’s sarcasm.

“I’m going to drop out as soon as possible and get a job at a machine shop,” Elle declares, “just so I never have to do that.”

“You’re going to stay in school,” Mom sighs. (This is an old argument.)

Peter slides his chair back and takes his plate to the sink. “I’m going out. Is there anything we need?”

“Lamp oil,” his mother says offhandedly. “Cheese, likely, and sausage. When will you be back?”

“I should be home by midnight,” Peter says as he leaves.

“Bye, Peter!” Alice calls after him. (Do keep an eye out for her. For now she’s a little girl enchanted by logic and lessons, but she’ll grow up fast. At this point you’d need five eyes to follow the relevant parts of this story. It would help if you were an arachnid.)

“Good night, Alice!”

 

Tonight, the Mad Dogs are planning the biggest score they’ve had in as long as Peter can remember: a break-and-enter at the house of a city councilman. It’s been four years since Peter joined them. Are you still watching him carefully? Perhaps you’ve lost him in the whirl of thief gangs and little sisters I’ve asked you to look out for. So observe the quick-change act he’s performed.  A pickpocket becomes a thief; an alley cat becomes a panther. He’s fifteen now, rangy, and his eyes are sharp and piercing.

“I don’t see why we can’t just jump this guy in an alley,” Ara grumbles as Peter strolls in and closes the door quietly behind him.

Sabine retorts, “The reason we’re actually breaking in is to get the good stuff. This score could be the biggest we’ve ever had, and we’ve had some big scores lately. He goes to the dinner party, we sneak in, we sneak out, he comes back and lo and behold his family heirlooms have vanished into thin air.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m not particularly interested in his grandma’s hope chest,” Peter snarks. Sabine glares at him. He shuts up.

“Morgan,” Sabine continues, now addressing their weapons master, “you’re the diversion. If the mark gets close, first you distract him. If that doesn’t work you knock him out and stash him somewhere. Peter’s lookout, he’ll signal you if you’re needed.” (Peter grits his teeth; he’s been the lookout on nearly every score for all four years he’s run with the Mad Dogs.) “Jove, you’ll need to get us in. Study the map, if you would. Ara, you and I are going to steal absolutely everything we can.” She glances at her watch (polished and ticking precisely; she steals a new one whenever she can) and reaches down to pass Jove the blueprint that lies open on the table. “He’ll be leaving for the party about now. Let’s go.”

Sabine has been close-mouthed about this score; this is the first the rest of the gang has heard of the specific plan. But with any luck, all will go well.

 

All does not go well.

Peter waves frantically from his perch atop the councilman’s house, abandoning all pretense of secrecy as he tries to get Morgan’s attention. Morgan sees him, thankfully, and nods in understanding  when he points frantically at the street. Apparently the councilman decided to come home early. Morgan slides shadowlike out of hiding and crouches nearer to the door. The street is deserted—it’s too late for anyone to be out in this part of the city—so she can mug the councilman in an emergency. That’s not ideal, but if it gives them an opening, anything’s fair game.

Peter runs across the roof in a crouch and swings down through a propped-open window. The room inside is vast, an open hall with Earth-style marble columns. Tall glass cabinets line the walls, many of which have been obviously broken into. The councilman’s trophy room is disgustingly opulent. Peter drops onto a ceiling beam and edges out across it until he spots Ara and Sabine, the latter stuffing a cloth bag with polished moonstones. Ara already has a bulging sack slung over one shoulder. Peter hisses, “ _Sabine!_ ”

“What is it, alley cat?” Sabine calls back.

“He’s back!” Peter’s voice cracks a little (damn you, puberty).

“Time?” she asks, turning back to the case and picking out a lump of polished crystal that shimmers scarlet-magenta-rose when she raises it to the light.

“Soon! We’re done with jewels. You need to get out of here!” Peter takes two careful steps backward across the beam and then slides down one of the marble columns. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he races over to Sabine and Ara. He snatches the crystal and moonstones out of Sabine’s hands and crams them into Ara’s sack. “Let’s go!”

Sabine grimaces. “Fine. Jove!”

The card sharp’s head comes around the door. “Yeah?”

“We have to scram. Come on.”

They dash down a back hallway, Sabine in the lead, Peter taking the rear. He glances over his shoulder every few steps to make sure they’re not being followed.

Suddenly Jove, who has the best hearing out of all of them, hisses, “Stop!”

They do. Sabine skids a little and starts to ask a question, and Ara yelps in surprise, but Peter stops in his tracks and listens as hard as he can.

_There_ —  footsteps, at least two pairs, coming fast. Ara and Sabine must hear it, too; Sabine’s face tightens with frustration and rage, and Ara looks panicked. Sabine spins on her heel and starts running in the opposite direction. “Jove! Left or right?”

“Left! Wait—no, right!”

They wheel around a corner and keep running. Peter can go for a while, but his breath is coming in gasps, anxiety pushing his pulse faster and faster.

“This way!” Jove says, pointing around another corner, but as soon as they turn footsteps rush toward them. “Never mind, that way! Sabine, you didn’t give me enough time to memorize the map, I don’t know where we are—”

Sabine turns and sprints down the other corridor, snapping, “Jove, stop complaining, I tell you what you deserve to know. You and Ara are with me. Alley cat, stay back, hold the exit until we’re clear.”

Peter trusts Sabine enough to agree. “I will, but I don’t know where Morgan is…”

“We’ll find Morgan if you keep the guards off our backs.”

Jove points them down another long hallway, then into a sitting room with a door to a patio. “Out here!”

“Alley cat—”

“I know!”

Sabine leaps through the door, followed by Jove and Ara. Standing in the doorway, Peter falls into a knife fighter’s crouch. He draws his usual long knife and flips Nicholas’s old blade out of his boot with his other hand, does a last check of his weapons: the two in his hands, one up each sleeve, and the lock picks stuck into his belt. It’ll have to do.

Can you hear it? Footsteps are ringing in the passageway, a pair of guards racing toward our alley cat. Count your heartbeats, three, two, one—

Into the room crash two black-clad soldiers. This man must be richer than a king to buy those guards, and that’s the last thought Peter has time for before they’re on him.

He spins, ducking one slash, meeting a blade with his own. He fights with both hands, whirling, struggling to keep his stance in the doorway. _(Feint right, stab up, spin and slash.)_ He’s not fighting to kill, just to hold them off. In the darkness there’s nothing but wild shapes and hungry blades. He lets them push him back, slowly giving ground; he only has to hold them off until the rest of the gang escapes.

Pain flares in his arm, hot, bone-deep, and blood spreads on his shirtsleeve as he backs up slowly. He’s been stabbed, doesn’t know how badly, can’t stop to check.

Instead he wheels on the soldiers, strikes hard and fast, aiming for throats and stomachs. His opponents fall like thatch before a storm, blood already pooling on the polished stone floor.

Peter turns and runs—sprints right out across the courtyard, scrambles up a trellis laced with climbing flowers and falls over the wall and into an alley.

His breaths almost echo in the sudden stillness. He counts them— _one, two, three, four, five_ —before getting up and peering at his arm. The cut is bad. Deep and ragged, and brimming with blood. Peter rips the sleeve off his shirt (it’s ruined anyway) and ties it around the cut as a makeshift bandage. He edges out of the alley and stares at the moonlit scene before him.

There are bodies on the ground—two, four, six. Six down. Sabine is fighting back-to-back with Jove, but Morgan and Ara are nowhere to be seen. If they’re there, they’re on the ground, and Peter’s gut twists at the thought.

The councilman is just disappearing into his mansion and slamming the front door. The police will be here in minutes, maybe less. Peter would jump in to help, but he knows he’d be dead in a second if he tried. None of the Mad Dogs have guns—too expensive, too easily tracked, according to Sabine—and although this has become a close-quarters tussle, all the guards have firearms.

There’s a rustle. Peter spins and slams the shadow behind him against the alley wall.

“It’s me! Lemme go!”

He lets go of Ara. “What are you doing here?”     

“Sabine told me to scram. I can’t.”

“Why?”

“This is all my fault.”

“You told someone, didn’t you.”

She turns away. Leans against the wall and speaks into the darkness. “I lost a bet. Lost it bad. Lost more than I could pay. This girl, she was after me, and I had to tell her I’d be coming into some money soon. She didn’t believe me. She had her knife at my throat and I told her everything. Guess she must’ve sold me out.”

“Sabine trusted you,” Peter says, cold. “I trusted you.”

“I _know_ ,” Ara says. “I’m sorry. Oh—alley cat?” Before he can reply, she says, “Thanks for the deck.” She darts out of the alley, dagger drawn.

He left a new deck of cards in the pocket of her coat two nights ago.

The realization hits Peter like one of Ara’s punches, the kind she taught him to throw. “ _Ara_ —”

But she’s gone.

Just a dark shape flinging herself into the fray, striking to all sides. Sabine shouts, “No! Get out of here!” and in that instant of distraction one of the soldiers gets inside her guard, burying a blade in her belly. She doubles over, collapses, choking on air.

Peter cries out, realizes his mistake, turns and starts to run—but there’s the flash of a gun behind him and everything goes dark.

 

At first he’s just cold.

Then the small of his back starts to ache, slow, burning pain that makes him sweat.

And then, of course, the memories of last night descend.

Peter sits up too fast and tries to take in everything at once. The lighting is sharp and fluorescent, and the walls and floor are cold concrete. His ankle is cuffed to the wall. So he’s in jail. A holding cell, probably, awaiting trial.

He reaches around to poke at his back, and the pain flares up again. He was… shot? With a laser pistol. Probably on “stun”, judging by how he’s alive, but part of him would really rather not be.

Peter leans back against the wall with a groan. He stays like that until a small voice pokes through his gloom. “Peter?”

He sits up. “Alice! What are you doing here?”

She shrugs. “Saw you in the paper. Talked them into giving me visitation. What happened?”

“I assume you’ve already figured out what I do at night?”

“You steal.” Alice says it plainly; it hurts to hear it from her mouth. “From rich people mostly. They called you _the_ _scourge of Brahma_.”

“Yes. I’m part of a gang. The Mad Dogs. We were trying to steal from this councilman. Our leader didn’t tell us enough about the score. We weren’t prepared. And one of my friends sold us out. So I’m here.” A thought occurs to him. “The rest of my gang—are they—”

“They’re dead,” Alice tells him. “Two shot, two stabbed. I read it in the paper.”

Peter sighs. Ducks his head briefly, hiding the pain that crosses his face. _Damn it, Sabine, if you’d trusted us... Ara, if you’d trusted us…_

He looks up at his sister, addresses her directly. “You may not want to trust anyone after this, Alice. It’d make sense. But you’ve got to.”

“What?”

“Trust is not optional in this world. You’ve got to have people you can depend on.”

She stares at him, but says, “Okay. Sure.”

“So when will they try me?”

The look on her face says it all.

“I suppose they already had the trial? Bastards. Don’t tell Mom I said that. And they probably sentenced me, too.”

“Execution,” Alice whispers, eyes glittering with tears she hasn’t let herself shed. “To set an example. Tomorrow at noon.”

Peter nods. “Fine. Go home, Alice.”

“No. I’m not leaving you.”

“You can’t stop it,” he says gently. “Just go home, please? Tell Mom what happened. Tell her I’m sorry.”

She bites her lip. She’s trying to be strong, he can see it. Alice swallows hard and says in an undertone, “Will you escape?”

“I’ve been imprisoned for trying to burgle the pants out from under a city councilman. They’re not going to let me just stroll out of here.” Peter gets up and shuffles as close to the bars as he can. “But I’ll figure something out. I always do.” _But maybe I don’t want to. Maybe I think I deserve this. I couldn’t save them…_

“Promise?”

It doesn’t look like she’d believe him, but Peter says it anyway: “I promise.”

He can’t break a promise to his little sister.

 

He’s woken again by the sound of a key in a lock, and he jumps to his feet, thinking the executioner has come for him. But it’s the middle of the night, and the only one there is a small figure in a baggy dark jacket, patched trousers, knit socks. Peter groans. “Alice, what did I tell you?”

“Shh. I’m breaking you out.”

“Alice! This is ridiculous!”

"Oh _shut up_ ,” she says, and gives the key a final twist.

The lock opens with a soft _click_.

“—what?”

Alice grins, a flash of teeth in the darkness. She slides into his cell and picks through the ring of keys dangling from her fingers. “I snuck in and stole this from a desk drawer.” Alice bends down and unlocks the shackle around Peter’s ankle. “C’mon.”

Peter follows his little sister as she pads out of the cell, closing the door as quietly as possible. Thankfully, this is a two-cell jailhouse, and the other cell is unoccupied. There’s no one around to hear them.

Alice leads Peter up a flight of stairs and down a dark hallway. They duck into a broom closet as a guard passes, then run together to the back door and emerge into an empty alley. The security is terrible, but most people wouldn’t risk the wrath of the Imperial Army soldiers, so nobody ever tries what Alice just did.

Once they’re several blocks away, Peter turns to his little sister, places his hands on her shoulders and looks her in the eye. “Thank you. I can’t say it enough, Alice, thank you.”

She hugs him silently. She’s shorter than him by a fair bit, so it’s a little awkward, but they manage. Moonlight throws the world into silver-blue relief.

“It’s goodbye for real this time, I’m afraid.”

“I know. I was just hoping…”

“Me too. But you know they’ll be hunting me down. They don’t know anything about you, right?”

She shakes her head. “I have an alibi. I told Mom I’m over at Sophy’s house tonight.”

“Good. Play dumb when the police show up. I’ll try to write you sometimes.” It hurts to say it, but Peter knows he has to. “I need to leave now. If I don’t, you’ll be in danger.”

Alice nods. “Can I come see you? When I grow up, I mean?”

It can’t hurt to lie. “Someday.” Peter kisses the top of her head. “Goodbye, Alice.”

“Bye, Peter.”

He turns on his heel and scrambles up the nearest building—fence, windowsill, drainpipe, and then running lightly over the rooftops. Before he goes offworld, he needs to tie up a few loose ends.

 

The Brahma police really don’t deserve the crap they get. You see what they have to work with? A convicted criminal disappears without a trace and there’s a break-in at the best college in the city. Both in one night.

There are no leads on the criminal’s disappearance—no witnesses and no evidence. Just open shackles. And the dean of the college is distraught, even though nothing appears to be wrong.

(Eight years later, when the secretary sends out acceptance letters to the list of students whose tuitions have been paid since they were born, she’ll give a curious look to the one address in the Outskirts. It will be at the very bottom of the list in a script that will look almost-but-not-quite the same as the dean’s. An Alice Nureyev—she’ll swear she’s never heard that name before, which is odd for the Brahma College of Excellence.

When the letter arrives at the Nureyev household, Alice will not be surprised.)

But neither of those crimes is what that night will become famous for. Because in the small hours of the morning, one Peter Nureyev drops a case of napalm, burning on a long fuse, through the sunroof of the Imperial Governor’s mansion. He’s six blocks away when it goes up in flames.

By the time the firefighters get there, there’s nothing they can do. The mansion burns to the ground in less than an hour. The Imperial Governor’s remains are lost in the inferno. The only clue to the culprit is the message pinned by a throwing knife to the door of the judicial hall across the square:

_With love from the Mad Dogs._

The Brahma police are well aware that there’s only one person that note could be from.

In the following days, Brahma slides into civil war. The Imperial Governor hadn’t named a successor, and a half dozen factions are vying for power in the most violent revolution since the First Brahman Civil War. Perhaps the arsonist intended this; perhaps not. But there’s still a warrant out for him and an entire planet ravaged by war.

I can tell you that he never set foot on Brahma again.

 

But the world keeps on turning. Blink and you’ll miss it:

A young man flirts with the pilot of a commercial starship and gets a job as a cabin boy. He gives his name as Robie O’Malley and his destination as “oh, wherever I end up”.

He gets off on Neptune and vanishes again. Nobody, not even the pilot, recognizes the teenage boy who rents an apartment in Nereid City and gets a job fixing cars in a local machine shop under the name Gatito. Anyone who compares the rent he pays and the paycheck he gets would notice a shortfall. If you’ve been keeping a close eye on him, you can probably guess how he makes it up.

One day word reaches the machine shop that Brahman authorities have arrived in Nereid City. They claim to be hot on the trail of Peter Nureyev, the sneak thief who singlehandedly caused the Sixth Brahman Civil War.

Gatito disappears that very night.

In the vast floating cities of Jupiter, Kit Bagheera surfaces. He becomes well-known as a champion jet racer and lover of fine art. On Earth, a cologne company receives orders to the name of Earl Macavity. The criminal underworld whispers about the suave young jewel thief they call the Alley Cat. In a dive bar on Venus, gambler Rusty Baron becomes known for the bizarre talent of being able to play (and cheat) against himself in a game of cards.

Some go to space to make a name for themselves. Peter Nureyev makes a thousand.

I won’t ask you to keep track of him any longer. You couldn’t if you tried. Just let this alley cat vanish into the night. He leaves a trail of broken windows and broken hearts in his wake every time he disappears; most times the only hint that he was ever there is the gift he left on a pillow or a windowsill.

If you can’t say out loud what needs to be said, petty theft and napalm are two good options.

 

\--

 

“Nureyev.”

“Yes, Juno?”

“What is… _this_?”

Peter turns from the window. Juno is perched on his side of the bed, holding something up to the morning light. “Ah. I should think it’d be obvious.”

“What I don’t get is why you left an _six hundred carat star sapphire_ on my bedside table.” When Peter doesn’t respond, Juno growls, “ _Nureyev_.”

“It’s a present,” Peter says, turning back to the window. Early morning traffic flows by, four lanes high and six deep.

“For me?”

“For you.”

“You really need to work on some priorities. It’s not even my birthday.”

“Juno, darling, it’s not—”

“—a big deal, yes, I know.” Juno crosses the room to put a hand on Peter’s shoulder, forcing him to look the detective in the eyes. “Nureyev, you left a single silver cufflink in my coffee mug two weeks ago. In my coffee, as a matter of fact. It’s a matched set with the one you snuck into the pocket of my coat the day before that.”

“Maybe I just want to treat my favorite private eye.”

Juno raises an eyebrow. “I’d tell you to stop spending money on me, but the HCPD tracks break-ins in the Minerva District, since everyone there has the power to fire an entire department over a window smash. Apparently there’s been a bit of an uptick in petty theft recently. What’s going on, Nureyev? All these little things—you know you don’t have do it, right?”

Peter has never really explained these stolen gifts to anyone else. But this is Juno. He leans on the windowsill and thinks about how to respond, though Juno is looking at him so intently that it makes thinking a little hard. “I suppose it’s a bad habit,” he says as nonchalantly as possible. “One I picked up in the Outer Rim. I grew up doing it and never really stopped.” Peter fiddles with his tie, turns back to watching the streams of cars go by. Juno should understand. They’re both back alley kids. Theft is part of growing up. Of course, Peter took it to a bit of an extreme.

He adds, “I thought you’d like the sapphire. It reminded me of you. I’ll return it if you want…”

“Don’t bother,” Juno replies.

Peter glances at him. “Sorry?”

“Don’t bother. I don’t mind.”

 

This is Hyperion City, where a panther plays alley cat, a detective falls in love with a thief, and nobody takes too much notice if a star sapphire vanishes into thin air.

Juno keeps it on his desk as a reminder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read this far, thanks for sticking with me! This... may or may not have gotten a little bit out of control.

**Author's Note:**

> Juno shows up next chapter, I promise (sorry, couldn't figure out a better way than just tagging this for Juno/Peter).


End file.
